Not who she was in her later years. It’s horrible to say, but I found it difficult to relate to the frail person that I saw when I was back home visiting.

It’s horrible, but it’s the truth. Parkinson’s is a shit.

I mean the version of her from when I was young and still trying to work out my place in the world. The woman who one day, whilst walking me home from school, and after repeated questions from a twelve year old me, told me it was okay to not believe in a god.

She was a devout Catholic.

She told me it was okay to not believe.

My memories of her are as inexplicably bound with the imagery of the Roman Catholic Church as they are with the smell of her cooking.